


What Works For Us

by ianlipgallagher (mdobbs1614)



Series: Prompts [58]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Coach Ian, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, UFC, UFC Fighter Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-09-25 10:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9816494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mdobbs1614/pseuds/ianlipgallagher
Summary: Prompt: I think the world could use a boxing champion and world class coach gallavich :)





	1. Chapter 1

“Again! Harder this time!” Ian yells, raising his padded hands. “Right hook, left hook, jab, kick. Let’s go!” 

 

Mickey swings faster. Right. Left. Jab. Kick.

 

Ian shakes his head as the kick comes in low. 

 

“C’mon, Milkovich.” He urges. “You might’ve won last month's big fight, but there’s always another young guy out there, ready to beat you, and right now, he’s training harder than you are.” 

 

“No one trains harder than I do.” Mickey growls. 

 

“Oh yeah? Bring it!” Ian says, once again raising his hands as Mickey holds up his fists. 

 

Right. Left. Jab. Kick.

 

“That’s it! Again!” 

 

Right. Left. Jab. Kick.

 

“One more time!"

 

Right. Left. Jab. Kick.

 

“Okay!” Ian praises. “That’s what I’m talking about!"

 

He slaps Mickey on the shoulder and nods for him to take a break. 

 

“Drink some water and listen up.” Ian says, grabbing his phone from his back pocket and pulling up a video. 

 

“This is Max Maximum.” Ian starts as a clip of a guy breaking some fucker's nose plays on his screen. 

 

“Stupid fuckin’ name.” Mickey grumbles in between sips of water.  

 

“That might be true, but he’s the favorite to win in your fight next week.” Ian says. “He’s got a habit of knocking people out within the first minute of his fights.” 

 

Mickey nods, watching Max’s highlight reel, man after man taking a hard punch to the face and falling to their knees. 

 

“How do I beat him?” Mickey asks. 

 

“Stay low up top.” Ian answers. “He likes to come in hot, so you gotta be ready to duck right away. Don’t fight for that first hit. And if you can’t duck, absorb the hit. Don’t let him take you out with one hard punch.” 

 

“What’s his weak spot?” Mickey inquires. 

 

“He tires himself out.” Ian says, clicking on another video. “Anyone who makes it past the first few minutes with Max, wins because his stamina is shit.” 

 

“Got it.” Mickey nods, standing up and rewrapping his hands with tape. “Let’s go.” 

 

*

 

Ian and Mickey train for hours every day, all week. If Mickey’s awake, he’s training.

 

By the time that Thursday rolls around, both men are almost ready to collapse. 

 

“Rise and shine!” Ian calls, entering the apartment with coffee in hand. 

 

Mickey sits up in bed as Ian walks in, sipping on a latte.

 

“Got one of those for me?” He asks. 

 

“No.” Ian scoffs. “Today is weigh-in. The only thing you’re eating is air.” 

 

Mickey groans, but he knows that Ian is right.

 

It may be horribly unhealthy, but no fighter eats on weigh-in day. The worst thing that can happen to a fighter is having to forfeit the win because you couldn’t make weight. 

 

Mickey ignores the longing from his brain and stomach for some caffeine and gets out of bed. 

 

“Grab your sweatsuit.” Ian says. “We’re going on one last run and then you need to shower and get dressed for the weigh-in.” 

 

Mickey nods, picking up his running outfit, which is basically made of trash bag material, and gets ready to sweat his ass off. 

 

*

 

Mickey peeks around the doorway to see all the flashing cameras and the yelling reporters. 

 

Max is called to weigh-in first. Mickey is the bigger name in the UFC world, and the better known fighter always goes second. 

 

Mickey and Max are in the lightweight class, which means they have to weigh between 146lb and 155lb. 

 

“And Max Maximum weighs in at…….” The announcer pauses to raise anticipation. “150!” 

 

Mickey nods contently. He wants to beat this guy the right way, not on some forfeit technicality bullshit. 

 

“And the opponent and defending champion of the lightweight class, Mickey ‘Mad-dog’ Milkovich!” 

 

Mickey strolls out confidently, a strong glare on his face that the crowd eats up. 

 

He sheds his sweatpants and tank top and steps up on the scale. 

 

“And Mickey Milkovich weighs in at……” Mickey takes a deep breath. “153!"

 

Mickey smiles minutely before scaling his face back into a glower. 

 

He slides his pants back on but remains shirtless for the face-off. 

 

This is Mickey’s least favorite part.

 

Everyone wants drama or a pre-fight punch, but Mickey’s not here for that. However, newbies like Max, that are trying to get themselves in the spot light always try something. 

 

The two fighters line-up face to face for the cameras, their noses almost touching. 

 

At the last second, Max presses his forehead to Mickey’s, pushing him backward.

 

Mickey takes a step back, sneering at Max but doing nothing further as a guard steps between them. 

 

“Just wait.” Mickey says calmly, a mean smirk on his mouth. “Just wait.” 

 

Mickey grabs his tank from the guard roughly and throws it back over his body as he stomps off the stage.

 

When he makes it to his dressing room, Ian is there waiting, having watched the whole thing on TV.

 

“The fuck was that?” Ian growls, clearly angry at Max, not Mickey.

 

“Just another young punk trying to start shit.” Mickey grumbles, grabbing the remainder of his stuff, ready to get out of this place for the night. 

 

“You ready to go?” Ian asks. 

 

“Yeah.” Mickey nods. “Get me the fuck out of here.” 

 

*

 

Mickey paces the tunnel as he waits for the clock to strike eight. 

 

It’s finally fight night and Mickey’s ready to do this thing. 

 

Ian stands to the side, quietly repeating all the things Mickey needs to do, though Mickey mostly drowns him out.

 

Ian used to being ignored right before the fight, but he talks anyway. His theory is that Mickey’s subconscious picks up on his words regardless of if Mickey’s actively listening. 

 

One of the men backstage motion for Mickey and Ian to come on, so the two hurry to the archway, waiting for the announcer to shout Mickey’s name.

 

“AND NOW, OUR DEFENDING CHAMPION OF THE LIGHTWEIGHT CLASS! MICKEY “MAD-DOG” MILKOVICH!!!"

 

Mickey comes stocking out of the tunnel, Ian right behind him but leaving space. The fighter has to make his grand entrance after all. 

 

Mickey takes his place outside the octagon cage and changes out of his sweats, handing them to Ian. 

 

“This is yours for the taking, Mick.” Ian whispers in his ear. “Remember, stay low at the beginning and absorb any punches. Make it past that first minute and it’s all yours.” 

 

Ian squeezes his shoulder once and then steps back, letting Mickey walk into the cage.

 

The referee calls the two men to the center and repeats the guidelines that Mickey could chant in his sleep. 

 

Both men nod, bumping fists, before moving back to their respective sides.

 

Mickey makes one last glance at Ian, who gives him a confident smirk, before looking back at his opponent. 

 

This is it.

 

_Ding. Ding._

Both men glide forward, each bouncing on their toes.

 

As expected, Max comes in hot with a few punches, but Mickey’s ready for them. He bobs and weaves, evading the fists. 

 

Mickey takes a swing of his own, catching Max in the cheek, but the man barely flinches, returning with a punch that hits Mickey square between the eyes.

 

He lets the hit take him to the ground, absorbing the blow like he knows he’s supposed to. Max follows him to the floor and Mickey fights the urge to smirk. The ground is where he does his best work. 

 

Mickey flips his body around, wrapping his legs around Max’s torso and grabbing his wrist, effectively putting Max in an arm-bar. 

 

Mickey pulls on the limb, showing Max that he’s not afraid to break it if he doesn’t tap out.

 

Surely enough, Max smacks the ground a few times begrudgingly and the bell rings. Both men stand and head back to their sides. 

 

Ian gives him a proud nod. Only two more rounds. 

 

_Ding. Ding._

The two fighters practically run back to the center of the ring, each ready to finish this here and now. 

 

Max seems to have become enraged by losing the first round, his swings are hard but sloppy. 

 

Ian watches excitedly, knowing that Mickey can win this fight easily if Max doesn’t pull himself together. 

 

In the end, Mickey doesn’t need a final round because he takes Max out with one swift kick to the side of the head.

 

Max hits the ground hard and doesn’t get up, electing Mickey the champion. 

 

The crowd cheers as the referee raises Mickey’s arm in the air, declaring him the winner.

 

Mickey can’t help but smile, something he tries to hold off on in the public eye because of his desired image, but right now, he thinks he’s allowed to grin a little. 

 

Mickey runs out of the ring and into Ian’s awaiting arms, kissing him deeply.

 

“You fucking did it, baby.” Ian smiles before going back in for another kiss. 

 

“We fucking did it.” Mickey says, hugging Ian tightly.

 

*

 

Ian and Mickey sit side by side at the post-fight press conference, answering the questions as quickly as they can so they can leave. 

 

“So, Mickey. What do you do to train for a fight like this?” A reporter asks.

 

“It’s just like any other fight.” Mickey shrugs. “I’m in the gym with Ian everyday. No free time. No days off. Just training 24/7.” 

 

“What’s it like having your husband also be your coach?” Another reporter questions. 

 

“It’s definitely not normal.” Ian smiles. 

 

“Yeah, we have a joke that our relationship is put on hold the week before the fight.” Mickey adds. “Because we can’t afford to have arguments about whose turn it is to the dishes or some shit like that when we're so intensely focused on training.” 

 

“But we figure it out.” Ian says.

 

Mickey nods in agreement, shooting Ian a private grin. 

 

“It works for us.” 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Loveeeee your story for pro fighter / trainer gallavich. Can I request a prequel of them meeting and falling in love 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prequel was requested so a prequel I wrote! Enjoy!

“C’mon, Matt. I said I was sorry."

 

“Fuck you, Milkovich.” Matt spits. “All I’ve ever tried to do was help you and you’ve fought and bitched at me through every step. I’m done.” 

 

“Matt, I need a coach.” Mickey pleads. 

 

“Well, find some other schmuck.” Matt bites as he heads for the door. “You’ve got real talent, Mickey, but if you don’t pull your head out of your fucking ass, you never gonna make it out of this gym."

 

Mickey watches defeatedly as Matt stomps out the door, leaving Mickey alone in the boxing ring. 

 

“Fuck” Mickey whispers, shaking his head as he pulls out his phone to make a call. 

 

“ _Hello?_ "

 

“Fine. I give in.” Mickey says into phone. “Call your fucking guy.” 

 

*

 

Ian walks up to the front door of the gym confidently. 

 

He knows about Mickey Milkovich’s reputation and his conversation with Iggy didn’t do anything to alleviate those rumors, but Ian has yet to meet a fighter he couldn’t help, and he promised Iggy just that. 

 

Ian slips in the entrance quietly so he can watch Mickey without him knowing. 

 

The man has his back to Ian. He’s standing in front of a punching bag, swinging and kicking wildly. 

 

It’s easy to see how much power he harbors in his smaller frame, but his form is sloppy, and at the rate in which he’s going, Ian only gives him five minutes before he tires out completely. 

 

Ian decides to make himself known.

 

“Mickey?” He calls out, prompting the young fighter to turn toward him. 

 

“You Gallagher?” He asks, peeling the tape off his hands.

 

“My name’s Ian, but yeah.” Ian grins. 

 

Mickey nods at Ian and walks closer. 

 

“So what’s the plan, coach?” Mickey asks with snark, his eyes rolling before the words have even left his lips. 

 

“Well, first off, drop the attitude.” Ian snaps. “I’m here by choice, and if you want my help, you’re gonna so me some respect.” 

 

“How fucking old are you, dude?” Mickey grunts. “Stop talking to me like you’re my dad or some shit.” 

 

“It doesn’t matter how old I am.” Ian barks. “My record speaks for itself. Do you want my help or not?” 

 

Mickey nods begrudgingly. Like him or not, Ian’s made winning fighters out of men with a lot less skill than Mickey. He needs this guy if he wants to make it big anytime soon. 

 

“Alright. Alright. I’m sorry.” Mickey mumbles. “You’re in charge.” 

 

“Mhmm.” Ian smirks, peeling off his hoodie so he’s just wearing the tank top underneath. “Let’s just get started, yeah?” 

 

Ian walks back over toward the front door and beckons Mickey to follow.

 

“The fuck are we going?” Mickey asks. 

 

“We’re running.” Ian responds before breaking out in a jog. 

 

“What?” Mickey breathes, already struggling to keep up with his long-legged coach. 

 

“You need stamina to win fights.” Ian answers. “And judging by the fact that you’re out of breath after running for two blocks, I’d guess that you don’t have much endurance.” 

 

“Fuck. You.” Mickey gets out between gasps. 

 

Ian simply snorts out a laugh and keeps his steady pace, turning back every so often to make sure that Mickey is still behind him. 

 

*

 

They circle back to the gym after running three miles. 

 

Mickey’s about ready to collapse, and when Ian mentions that they’ll work their way up to 6 miles by next week, Mickey almost passes out. 

 

Ian pats him on the back and tells Mickey to go take a shower, a command which Mickey happily accepts. 

 

Mickey shuffles to the locker room, where he throws his clothes off and peacefully stands under the hard, steady stream of hot water. 

 

He closes his eyes and has nearly fallen asleep when he hears another person enter the locker room.

 

He shifts his curtain aside to see who it is and finds himself staring straight at Ian’s naked ass. 

 

“Shit.” Mickey breathes.

 

The man has a body carved by God. Mickey took notice of how hot he was when he first walked into the gym, but a naked Ian is even better. The back muscles on him alone have Mickey melting. 

 

Ian shifts like he might turn around so Mickey snaps the curtain shut, hoping and praying that Ian didn’t see him ogling. 

 

Thankfully, it seems that Mickey is in the clear based on the words that Ian calls out next.

 

“Mickey, I’m leaving.” Ian yells. “Be here tomorrow at 7am sharp!” 

 

“Fuck off!” Mickey shouts back, but he finds himself smiling at the words instead of actually meaning them like he did with Matt.

 

That’s weird.

 

*

 

As the training continues for the following weeks, Mickey finds out that Ian isn’t bad company at all.

 

In fact, unbeknownst to Mickey, they somehow have even become friends. 

 

Right now, for instance, the two men are eating dinner after a long day of running and weight-lifting. 

 

“Jesus Christ, Gallagher.” Mickey whines. “I need a day off. All of my limbs are about to fall off my body."

 

Ian studies Mickey silently before sighing. 

 

“Fine, we can take a break tomorrow, but don’t make it a habit, okay?” Ian warns, standing up from his seat and laying a $20 down on the table. 

 

“Where ya going?” Mickey asks, looking up at the man. 

 

“Gotta meet some guy for a date.” Ian says. “But I’ll see you bright and early on Thursday, yes?” 

 

Mickey nods, distractedly, his mind already moving a mile a minute as Ian walks away. 

 

Every since Mickey met Ian, he’s had a crush on him. Who wouldn’t with that smile and charm? But this crush was a lot easier to ignore when Mickey could just convince himself that Ian was straight. 

 

Now, however, the levies have broke, and this thing he has for Ian can no longer be pushed aside so simply. 

 

“Shit.” 

 

*

 

“C’mon, Mick. Let’s go. Let’s go.” Ian coaches as he looks back at Mickey while they're on their morning jog a week later. “You’re slowing me down today. Where’s that fire?” 

 

“Fuck off, Gallagher.” Mickey grunts, slowing down to a walk. 

 

Ian frowns, stopping as well and fixing Mickey with a look of confusion.

 

“Something wrong?” He asks. 

 

“I said fuck off.” Mickey says with a little more aggression in his voice. He turns to head back to the gym. 

 

“It’s a little too late to try and scare me off now, Mickey.” Ian jokes. 

 

But the joke falls flat as Mickey spins around with an angry look on his face. 

 

“Leave me alone.” Mickey barks. 

 

Ian takes a step forward, trying to placate the man in front of him.

 

“Did something happen? I’m just trying to help you, Mick.” Ian speaks softly. 

 

“I don’t need your fucking help.” Mickey spits. “Faggot.” 

 

The two men might be on a busy street, but the only thing that can be heard in their little bubble is the terse silence of the air between them. 

 

Ian’s face contorts from concern to hurt to anger in rapid succession. His jaw is tight as he shakes his head slightly before storming away. 

 

“What the fuck was that?” 

 

Mickey looks to see Iggy and Mandy standing behind him, a look of confusion and disappointment on their faces, respectively. 

 

Mickey stares at the ground as he moves around them to get his stuff out of the gym. 

 

He lets his forehead hit the wall of the locker room and tries to keep his emotions at bay.

 

Fuck. He really fucked up. 

 

*

 

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Ian opens the door to reveal someone expected to see sooner or later. 

 

“Unless my lack of response to your calls and texts wasn’t clear enough, I don’t want to talk to you.” Ian grunts, moving to close the door. 

 

“Ian, wait.” Mickey pleads, throwing a hand forward to keep the door from closing. “Let me explain."

 

“No need.” Ian assures him. “Iggy told me all about your dad and all the shit he told you, okay?” 

 

Mickey arches at brow at that. 

 

“I kinda knew anyway, I mean, Terry’s kind of infamous in the southside, but I can’t believe you held on to all that homophobic bullshit.” 

 

“Wait, Iggy didn’t tell you th-"

 

“I’m just confused.” Ian interrupts. “We were friends, right? Why does me being gay have to change that?” 

 

“Ian, I’m g-“ 

 

“Look” Ian interrupts again. “You’re so talented. I want you to succeed, but I can’t coach someone who hates me because of who I fuck. I just ca-"

 

Ian is cut off my Mickey rushing forward and pressing his lips to the taller man’s. Ian falls into for a moment before he pushes Mickey back. 

 

“Wha-"

 

“I’m gay, Ian.” 

 

“But, why d-“ 

 

“I freaked out on you, and I’m sorry. It’s just-.” Mickey takes a deep breath. "Look, I’ve been through a lot of shit and when I found out you were gay, I knew eventually I wouldn’t be able to hide my feelings for you, so I thought it would just be easier to push you away, but it wasn’t.” Mickey explains. “It fucking sucked. I really like you, okay? And I’d never want to hurt y-"

 

Ian pulls Mickey back into the kiss.

 

“Just shut up.” Ian breathes against Mickey’s lips. 

 

Mickey smiles, tapping his forehead against Ian’s.

 

“So are we good?” He asks gently. 

 

Ian rolls his eyes, pulling Mickey closer by his waist. 

 

“Fuck off.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and feelings?
> 
> Prompt me on [my tumblr](http://www.ianmickgallagher.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> So I made this more UFC than boxing, but hopefully that's close enough.
> 
> Hit me up on


End file.
